


Devotion

by mousaerato



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Explicit Consent, F/M, Hypnotism, Lap Sex, Light Dom/sub, Marking, Possessive Behavior, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousaerato/pseuds/mousaerato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he’s naked, he looks more like death incarnate than he does clothed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devotion

                Meulin sits on her knees upon a soft, billowy white cloth on the floor of her cavernous hive. The minimal lighting against the deep fuchsia and clay-toned walls makes the fabric look pink or mauve, its true hue only visible near the edges where it lies closer to the candles fixed upon the stone walls. The hem of her black pleated skirt falls just above her knee, and her olive stockings – the only “footwear” she has on -- end high enough to bring attention to her thighs, but low enough to reveal a hint of her slate gray skin. Her hair falls in black waves reaching the small of her back in no discernible pattern; it is organized, precise chaos and lovely indeed. Giving a smile that shows her fangs, she looks up from pouring a cup of tea and fixes her green eyes upon the face of her guest.

                His mouth never moves as he slowly brings a gloved, bony hand to accept the pink and white floral cup of warm, sweetened beverage from his hostess. He sits as she does, directly facing her while his long frame obscures some of the soft light, casting misshapen shadows around the room. His arm is thinner than the last time he visited, she notices; although Kurloz has always been tall and lean, his slow movement and dark demeanor give Meulin a moment to notice how the black fabric of his skeleton shirt now hangs loosely from his frame. Last week, she swears it was taut to his arm, concerned with how _gaunt_ he has become. She feels even more petite than she knows she is, and she suddenly becomes even more aware of the womanly fat that fills out her small, curvy frame. With his religious face paint, he looks paler, too – they could not be more striking of a contrast.

                He brings the cup to his mouth, lips sewn together with black wire. He can no longer speak or open his mouth, but with effort he’s still able to drink, taking long hissing breaths to suck back the beverage through the fleshy gaps between the stitches. Kurloz pauses to grimace, aware of the rude slurping noises he’s forced to make to sustain himself as they reverberate throughout the room, bouncing against the walls and back into his ears. Meulin, of course, is unaffected, grinning as she finishes her own drink in a similarly floral ceramic cup.

                She turns from him for a moment to produce a writing tablet and two pens of purple and olive ink, placing the former to Kurloz’s side for his convenience. Even though he has taken a vow of silence and in spite of his hands being distracted by the gracious small party she’s prepared, Meulin is still a dedicated pupil, unflinchingly dedicated to the man who opened her eyes. Kurloz knew in his preaching days that his esoteric faith would mark him as a pariah, glanced upon with suspicion in the least – utter fear and contempt at most.

                Meulin, however, ever the wise woman thirsty for knowledge and understanding, saw past the miasma of malicious libel that threatened to poison his honeyed words. She discerned the truth in the teachings of his faith, the beauty in its rich, symbolic rituals, and eventually, to the soul of the high-blooded devotee. The poise and quiet confidence, combined with the unchanging truth he revealed, cast away all fear in her. She became a follower of the faith he professed, and wished to learn as much as possible. Together, they grew in holiness and mirthful virtue, their sacred bond blessed and nourished by the angels, eventually coming to full, scarlet bloom.

                Meulin speaks, voice breaking the solemn ambiance, “I’m purrepared fur any more pious theosophy, brother.”

                He takes a last, quiet sip of the rather large tea sample, placing it down and writing on the tablet:  “Sister, you know as well as I motherfucking do that the mirthful mysteries shouldn’t be written down on a motherfucking simple piece of paper.” Meulin glances at his words, nodding in understanding. Perhaps she was not as perspicacious as she thought.

                In truth, Kurloz simply preferred the art of sign language when praying with his matesprit. He preferred the pacing, the interactivity with her, over the cold and choppy method of speaking, then writing. They were completely equal in this format, however, and he reveled in watching her hands move, visibly soft and feminine, occasionally trembling with enthusiasm and passion. In his silence, he had grown not only in holiness, but in vigilance. Signing with Meulin was a visual feast; he could feel his eyes widen just enough to watch take in her smirks, the way her lips purse when contemplating an answer to a difficult doctrinal question, how her eyes would come alive with laughter when he would share with her the more jocular intricacies of their shared belief’s teachings. Tonight is no exception, like every week.

                Midway through a joke, Meulin stops signing, stops laughing, and interlocks her warm, plump fingers with his long, wiry ones. Kurloz visibly shudders, taken aback, but does not break the connection. He understands the gesture, and looks to her, eyes threatening to shed translucent, olive tears.

                “I miss kissing you.”

                Kurloz tentatively extricates one hand from Meulin’s grasp, letting the pads of his gloved hand skim the side of her cheek, wiping away what he notices are the start of tears. The corners of his mouth turn downward as he brings his hand to stroke at her hair.

                “It’s unfur!”

                Kurloz shakes his head – vehemently at first, softening when he hears Meulin let out a sniffle. He’s already hurt her enough, robbing her of her ears, the very mechanism that brought them together in the first place. He raises one finger to her face, gesturing for her to wait, as he writes out a simple request in the purple ink upon the tablet: “We can do what we used to do, if you are willing to trust me again.” He wants it, yes, but not at the cost of possibly doing more damage.

                Meulin reads his offer and ponders, brows furrowing. Eventually, she clears their cloth of the teacups and takes her pen in hand, writing a reply: “I give you complete purrmission.” Kurloz sees her decision and smiles, more in the eyes than in the slight upward curl of his lips, and brings both of his hands to her face, bringing their foreheads together. Meulin responds in kind, weaving her hands through his unruly yet beautiful locks. He rubs encouraging circles around her temples as she takes a deep breath.

                Subjuggulator voodoo takes time to become receptive to; it can be harsh if a troll opposes it with vitriol. Meulin, however, inches closer to Kurloz’s body as she hums, his purple eyes never leaving hers. His hands travel to rest on her shoulders, feeling the tension in her body melt away, supporting her shifting weight with his grip and palms. As Meulin’s breathing becomes slower and deeper as she becomes more relaxed and open, Kurloz notices her legs shift. He brings one arm completely around her shoulders, using his free hand to assist her in no longer sitting on her knees, careful not to scratch or even push a sock out of place. She is precious to him – even more so in this state. As his hand works near her legs, Kurloz feels that they, too, are gone of tension. She trusts him so much; even after everything that’s happened, she is still able to do this for him.

                He brings one finger to her lips, and as she presses back to kiss it, her eyes open, fixed upon his own as if magnetized, unable and unwilling to look away. He sees her sclera taking on a flickering purple, fuchsia, and violet sheen – much like what his eyes must look like to her. She’s warm, calm, trusting; her gaze is no longer one of intense scrutiny and intellect but one wiped clean of biases, inhibitions, and worries. Kurloz has missed this, knowing they were now linked in thought, rendering language irrelevant. Meulin could always see his soul; it was a rare gift for someone with that much understanding to bare her own.

                He stares into her eyes, wordlessly telling her: “ _Your limbs are perfectly normal now. You can move, you can speak, and even if you cannot hear my words in your precious ears, they resonate in your mind.”_ She purrs, face beginning to show signs of an olive blush, as her hands return to resting in her lap. Meulin’s mind was, relatively speaking, now a blank slate – just as when they first met, every word of his sounded sweet, tasted sweet to her tongue to repeat, every fiber in her being found itself wanting to understand, to follow, to belong, to feel his words and commands embrace her and never break her trust. She could surrender to her prince.

                Kurloz backs away, sitting in front of her, legs now spread out on either side of her as he rests on his palms. This was one of his favorite things, and in sacrificing one “sense,” his others became stronger.

                _Take off your shirt._

Wordlessly she complies without losing eye contact, as if Kurloz’s gaze is meaningful, addictive, powerful, removing the olive knitted vest and casting it aside. Her breasts are more prominent now, no longer held back by the additional layer of restricting fabric. She looks more like him now; the only pieces of clothing still on her that isn’t black are her socks, both of them now a stark contrast to the rosy hues of the cave. His voice remains as certain as it was when they first met, “telling” her, _unbutton your top for me._

She glances down to keep track, small hands slowly undoing shiny black buttons, more of her chest and flat stomach becoming visible as she works lower and lower until he can see nothing joining the two sections of fabric, her skin showing as a visible contrast to the black fabric. Kurloz can make out her nipples from the thinner top, and the opening now reveals to him the soft curves of her breasts, making it obvious she isn’t wearing a bra. She looks up at him and cannot hold back a sly, quiet smile. Even in her trance, eyes glazed over and alight, she can see the subtle cues in his face – eyes wider, attentive and the corners of his the stifled movement of his lips. If she could hear, she would match those movements to a muffled lip smacking.

                Kurloz can hear her thoughts ringing through his mind: yearning, joy, intoxication all making her skin hot and her hands shake with nervous energy, waiting to be told what to do. _Come over to me, and take off your skirt as well._

                She obeys readily, back arching as she digs her fingers into the waist of the maddeningly thick article and shimmies out, leaving her only in what Kurloz can see are pink and olive silken panties, her olive stockings, and an unbuttoned black top. She sits on her knees again, now between Kurloz’s spread legs. Even in his relaxed position, he is still taller than Meulin by a small margin. He’s tempted to indulge himself right then and there, to give the two of them exactly what they both want, but he draws it out, savoring the tiny details and the rush of power in having this much control over her emotions and  responses.

                He can feel the warmth emanating from her, she’s so close and so much warmer than he is. He inhales the scent of her skin and hair, finding it even headier than in the past. It’s been too long; he never expected her to be able to trust him this much again. Kurloz grips at her thighs, savoring the heat and watches her skin develop goose bumps before slipping a finger into the elastic of her stockings, peeling them away. She shudders at the sudden change in temperature, sighing and letting out sounds that are music to her lover’s ears.

                Kurloz considers himself blessed beyond belief to have someone so beautiful and willing. He brings a hand impatiently to rest on the bulge in his pants, slyly palming it as he gives Meulin another subliminal instruction: _Take off the top._ Meulin, of course, does so quickly as another shudder rocks her, nipples now visibly hard and tinted with the color of her blood. Kurloz looks at her – topless, blushing, mind vacant and vaguely aroused, now only wearing a flimsy, thin pair of underpants. He chuckles; as she comes closer, craving his touch, he notices the pattern on her undergarments is pink and green smiling cats. So precious for such a sweet little thing.

                _Do you want me to touch you?_ He asks, merely gazing into her eyes to establish contact.

“Yes,” she sputters out, voice nervous and wanting.

                He brings both hands to her chest, finally allowing himself his favorite vice as he squeezes one breast in each of his wide, spindly hands, a pleased groan audibly catching in his throat. He’s always loved that his hands can’t cup either of them entirely, the warm and supple flesh practically engulfing his thin fingers, now even more similar to the skeleton gloves he wears over them. He kneads at them, indirect contact with his own skin a maddening tease for himself. He gently runs his thumbs over her nipples, and she lets out a high-pitched, squeaky _mewl_ , the kind he’s grown to expect and love when he knows he’s applied the right amount of pressure.

                Meulin’s eyes are closed now, head falling to Kurloz’s shoulder as her hands become desperate under his ministrations. As he changes the pace, she can feel herself getting warmer and slicker in anticipation, wet panties sticking to her heat. She can perceive Kurloz’s mild frustration, knowing he’s still clothed but not questioning why, knowing he can’t suck at her skin or lick adoring stripes between her breasts. Remembering the way her beloved palmed at himself, she brings one hand between her legs, rubbing herself through the sheer fabric unashamedly. Kurloz lets his thoughts enter her mind again as he presses his lips along a breast, appreciating the warmth and the scent under his nose: _That’s right, there’s no shame in it. Show me that you want me._ Meulin may have her “immature” hobbies like shipping, but her passion for it comes from her knowledge, her intelligence, the way her mind could trace each and every detail of her darlings, and Kurloz knows that a mind that full can be burdensome. Relieving her of it is quite the beautiful rush of power as he lets his eyes watch her hands work on herself, the musky smell of arousal getting him harder, more restless.

                There’s a part of him, bubbling underneath the calm and pleased demeanor, the faint smile upon his silenced mouth, that would love to turn this scene more brutal. He watches her fingers finally reach underneath of her underwear, pushing the fabric aside and breaching herself, and his thoughts turn darker. He imagines tearing those cute little panties off of her, pushing her roughly to the cave floor, his hands pressing vice-like and hard enough to her hips to leave green-colored bruises, and ravaging her. He would pull at her hair hard enough to leave her with a headache as she came to, possibly leaving her sore and unable to walk. He’s thin and ghastly, yes, but still strong and much bigger than her – he could do it easily even now.

                She hears his thoughts echo against her mind again and stops, taking off her underwear and casting them aside, now completely nude, resting prettily between his clothed legs and gazing as his covered form. She asks, even though she knows what he wants, “May I undress you?”

                He nods in approval, and her hands – one almost searing to the touch, the other moist with Meulin’s own fluids – start quickly at his neck, unzipping his shirt to unveil his torso. He hums in approval, finding her hot hands wonderful to experience – he’s been waiting to feel them on himself for such a long time, practically craving it. Meulin was right in her observations earlier – she can see some of Kurloz’s ribs sticking out and his stomach looks shriveled. He discards his gloves and kicks away his shoes as Meulin works carefully on his pants and undergarments, pulling them away to reveal his bony, angular hips.

                When he’s naked, he looks more like death incarnate than he does clothed.

                There’s a twinge of pity in Meulin’s heart – she wants to cradle him and care for him in his frail state, but at the same time, she finds the sharp, jutting bones fascinatingly beautiful. There is something appealing to her about them; perhaps it’s because of her curvaceous figure, filled in nicely with womanly fat that draws her to the opposite, but maybe it is something more. There is something always appealing to those who understand the mechanics of heart about the presence of something that reminds them of the fragility of the body, the specter of death that looms over the vehicle beings use to express the soul. Everything about him, while scary and veiled, is true and real. She understands that.

                 He brings his cold hands to her hips and urges her forward; it’s times like these he wishes they could still kiss. Kurloz can see faint drips of purple on his thighs, joined quickly by a drop of olive fluid, its warmth making his blood pool south even more. Meulin drapes her arms around his shoulders, planting a kiss in his neck as she lowers herself into his lap, granting him entrance. Kurloz lets out a pleased hiss as he breaches her; Meulin exhales shakily, letting out a whimper of someone finally getting what they’ve wanted.

                When his groin is flush against hers, Kurloz grips her sides tighter, gently encouraging her to gyrate, moving enough that he could buck upwards into her as she adjusted to the sensation. He hums, feeling her slick, hot walls clench and tighten in further anticipation. As much control as he has over her, Kurloz always lets Meulin set the pace. It’s pleasing to see her lose herself while he’s inside of her, stretching her, acting as one body as well as a shared consciousness.

                She brings her legs around his waist tightly, chests now crushed together, and starts a rhythmic up and down movement. She lets out a moan as she brings herself down on him again, increased pace making her more aware of how satisfying it feels to have him fill her. She bites her lip again, finding a pleasurable pace as she digs into Kurloz’s back, threatening to tear into him. He feels her desperation, her anxiety, can read it plain as day on the walls of her mind, and responds, rolling his hips to meet her movements in perfect synchronization.

                _Do it,_ he murmurs wordlessly to her, _stop holding back; I already told you it’s alright._ He brings his fingers around to the small of her back, thumbs still hooked at her hips and _digs_ , just enough to bring a rush of adrenaline with his nails, to let her know she’s allowed to do what she’s thinking about, wishing for, wanting. Meulin arches back with a throaty moan as Kurloz pushes her forward again as she roughly rides him, feeling a warm kind of sting with the jolts of pain and pleasure as he presses against the sensitive parts of her. With a filthy grunt, she claws down his back hard enough to leave small stripes of purple blood on his skin and under her nails.

                He growls, pulling on her hair before helping her slam down on him over and over. She always manages to do this to him; her receptiveness and fearlessness about all the pieces of who he is makes those darker urges, that hunger that boils in his blood come close to overflowing, just as her walls shudder violently, telling him she’s close.

                He holds her still, _unnaturally still_ in his lap, legs still wrapped around him and still sheathing him and instructs her: _Open your eyes._ She obeys; olive irises almost fully dilated look into his, strangely almost entirely purple despite his arousal. Before he can ask, she says without speaking, using that same psychic bond, _I want it. Please. I want to give you everything, anything._

                She gasps as he pushes her down onto the white cloth and slipping out of her, hands now on her shoulders rough enough to mark her. He pinches her breasts, her nipples, lets the wire that sews his mouth shut _scrape_ against her skin in an attempt to taste the layer of sweet sweat on her. She knows he’ll leave cuts on her torso, little marks on her neck and chest, but she doesn’t care. She understands that he’s trusting her, like she trusts him, with something dark and profound, each mark like a sermon from his lips in the past.

                She feels drunk, intoxicated; her limbs feel like they’re made of putty as Kurloz lifts her legs effortlessly and quickly, her ankles resting close to his shoulders. His fury makes him so much stronger than he looks; his eyes are wild and bestial, despite the fact Meulin swears she can feel his clavicle touching her calf. She tries to grab the back of his head, but before she knows it, one large, bony hand is pinning both of her wrists above her head after he guides himself back inside of her. His grunts and rasps are lewd as he thrusts, rough and painful into her. He knows he’s going to bruise her at the pace he’s going. His messages to her become louder, more passionate: _Scream for me, I want your throat as sore as your legs._

                Finally, the last thread of self-restraint Meulin has snaps, his urgings positively irresistible in her state. She moves her head back and forth violently, all the energy and lust forced to her torso given the position Kurloz has her in. She screams, louder than even her normal voice, a series of full-bodied, enthusiastic _moans_ , begging him, “Harder, harder, please – fuck! – Break me, I don’t care, just take all of me--”

                Her offer of her full self, anything he wishes is enough to turn everything brutal. If she wants him to take everything, he’ll give her everything in return. He tightens his grip on her hands and knows he’s drawing blood; she sighs when he breaks the skin, as if she’s been injected with some delirious drug. He swivels his hips between thrusts, earning lewd, shrill feline shrieks of pleasure from her as she tightens around him, her body practically crying out to him to keep going.  He happily obliges as a high overtakes him, slamming into her as her legs shudder. His snaps his sharp hips, giving her some quick thrusts as he’s completely inside of her, faster and faster as he feels both of them getting closer, closer, and closer…

                Meulin screams, a combination of pain, pleasure, and devotion surpassing all fear as she comes, Kurloz following with…a laugh. He cackles loudly, a kind of dark and _horn-like_ , maniacal laughter as he fills her, stopping to rest inside of her as both of them catch their breath.

                After a moment, he pulls out from her, a combination of olive and purple fluid leaking from her and staining the sheets. He indulges one last whim, dipping a finger in their mixed slurry and bringing it to Meulin’s mouth. She licks him, lapping at the musky, sweet juices before sucking his fingers clean, big green eyes never closing or flinching as she watches for his pleased reaction.

                Kurloz untangles her, finally resting at her side. She nuzzles into his chest and brings a warm hand to caress his ribs, exposed to the open air. She can hear his heart – one that some around them deny even exists – and it soothes her. He brings his hand to her chin, bringing her face upward to look at her, tired, satisfied, and in a daze. She seems not to remember his impediment when she presses her soft, inviting lips to his thin, sewn ones. His eyes remain open in shock before he feels the very tip of her tongue skim his lips, as close to a kiss as they can ever share.

                The realization makes him sad, but Meulin, ever quick on the uptake, responds to his unspoken concern: “That’s enough fur me, Kurloz.” The corners of his mouth turn up into a smirk as she finally closes her eyes, totally spent. He runs a hand through her hair while she absentmindedly purrs, appreciating that he has at least one person so utterly dedicated to him in this entire mirthless world, fearless and open and trusting.  She is accepting of the chaos inside of him, knowing its purpose and origin, as much as he knows her desires, her hopes, her dreams, her heart and very soul.

                So this is love.

                A voice in his head returns as he too closes his eyes. He hasn’t heard it in a while – not since his last sermon. It’s his own voice, yes, but darker, more solid, encouraging a suggestion as he loses consciousness:

_“If she is willing to do this much for you, think how much more she will do for Him.”_


End file.
